


i find myself on salted earth

by Mothervvoid



Series: Lamentations [3]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Angry TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dark Thoughts, Despair, Gen, PLEASE someone give this poor kid a hug, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Violent Thoughts, no beta we die like schlatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28727523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothervvoid/pseuds/Mothervvoid
Summary: [Dream taught you to enjoy that, the taste of pennies under your tongue and in your cheeks. Technoblade taught you to savor the taste of bile in the back of your throat.]Tommy isn't doing so well in the aftermath of Doomsday.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tommyinnit & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Lamentations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113842
Comments: 8
Kudos: 116





	i find myself on salted earth

**Author's Note:**

> someone please get this kid some therapy STAT.
> 
> ive been stuck on tommy's 'im worse than anyone ive ever hated' line bc like.... ouch, poor kid. so here's a stream of consciousness for him in my usual sadboy fashion :^)

You don’t miss the crack in Technoblade’s voice when he claims he listened to you, nor are you deaf to the way it cracks again as the words ‘I’M A PERSON!’ bellow from his lips. There's a bitter, raw rage that washes over you from yards away, as if he were the Ender Dragon in all of its’ terrible glory. 

He wishes. As if he were a dragon. As if he were a god. He isn’t. You’ve seen underneath that veneer of Godhood, under the veil that projects a ruthless entity of chaos and glimpsed the raw humanity beneath. You find him broken in several large pieces hidden under a tablecloth; like that time you broke your mother’s favorite vase and didn’t want Phil to find out.

So you needle him, over and over again, verbally prodding at a fresh bruise in hollow revenge for L'manberg. You can’t save your city, but you could hurt him. You knew how. After all, you learned from the best. It’s an acquired taste, wanting to see another person in pain; one you’d grown accustomed to, like the taste of your own blood. 

Dream taught you to enjoy that, the taste of pennies under your tongue and in your cheeks. Technoblade taught you to savor the taste of bile in the back of your throat, to swallow it back and revel in your misdeeds. 

As you stand here in the middle of Dream’s chaos, you furiously dig up your own thoughts about his actions, throwing his mistakes in his face. Not that he’d care. The Blade didn’t regret his first betrayal and he won’t regret this one.

Your words become sharp, barbed and fletched like arrows, aimed at his heart. Morbidly, you think about how much you’d like to see him cry.

…

You taste bile and blood once again as you sit in the rubble of L’manberg, side-by-side with Tubbo, and you furiously hope Technoblade swallows his fair share. You hope Dream betrays him, finally puts him in his place. You hope a great many dark things, before you put them in a box and hide it in the darkest recesses of your mind, lest you turn into Wilbur. Not the Wilbur you’d preserved, and certainly not the one you followed; but the one that had slithered from his defeated corpse after Schlatt took L’manberg for himself.

And now it was ruins. The nation that drove your brother to madness was a crater so deep you could see bedrock.

This place was all you had left of Wilbur, the _real_ Wilbur; not the Wilbur that chain-smoked through Pogtopia, not the Wilbur that died in the button room, and certainly not whoever Ghostbur was. Your brother Wilbur, not whoever took his place in a soot-smudged trenchcoat, who walked around smelling like fire and bitter regret. 

Wilbur didn’t die in that room with your father, you realize. He died in Pogtopia, chewed and swallowed by his own failures and out of the darkness crawled a simulacra of the brother you knew and loved. All he knew was destruction. All he knew was soot beneath his fingernails and the flick of a lighter. He spit venom and listened too keenly when Technoblade voiced his desire to tear L’manberg down to its foundations.

That Wilbur would have _loved_ this.

“What do we do now?” Tubbo’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife, the world’s tiniest netherite sword through a dense fog. 

You don’t know. “I’m not sure,” You say, “But we’re still together.”

It’s just you and Tubbo now. You don’t know where Fundy and Niki went, but as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see Niki again.

She burned L’mantree. You had thought that if you couldn’t save Wilbur’s country, you could save the L’mantree; a tiny piece of the original Wilbur, the one who founded L’manberg with you in a stupid van for a stupid purpose with tacked-on trimmings of liberty and justice for all, all with a delicious side of ‘fuck the green bastard’, but she had taken that from you. Niki. Sweet, loveable Niki.

Why did she change?

Why did Wilbur change?

… Have you changed?

Something in the darkest part of your soul stirs, and whispers; _you could be worse than anyone you hate_.


End file.
